


National Treasure

by Evereaction (orphan_account)



Category: National Treasure (Movies), Supernatural
Genre: AU: National Treasure, M/M, destiel fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 00:23:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15231300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Evereaction
Summary: (DESTIEL FIC) (NATIONAL TREASURE AU)“You’re gonna WHAT?” asked Charlie, praying she’d misheard him. But she hadn’t. Dean Winchester was sitting there on the steps in front of the Lincoln monument, and he’d just said the seven words she’d never expected ANYONE to say to her.Dean nodded, standing and dusting himself off. “I’m gonna steal the Declaration of Independence.”In which Charlie is an expert hacker, the Winchesters are all history fanatics, Castiel Novak is a historian who never asked for any of this, and Crowley is a backstabbing little son of a gun.





	1. Finding Charlotte

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily, heavily based on "National Treasure."

_Georgetown, 1832_

Thomas Winchester squinted through the rain at the road in front of him, gripping the whips tighter in his hands, struggling with all the might his ten-year-old self could muster to keep the horses on the road. From the carriage behind him came a series of weak coughs, masked by the driving rain. Thomas winced. He was soaked to the bone and shivering with cold, and all he needed was for his 96-year-old passenger, Charles Carroll, to die before they arrived at their destination.

His heart pounded just thinking of it, and he straightened his back, gripping the whips even tighter, so tight the rough leather bruised his palms. Charles Carroll. The legendary _Charles Carroll,_ one of the fifty-five signers of the Declaration of Independence, had asked him to take him to see President Andrew Jackson on urgent business. The thought sent a thrill down Thomas’s spine. _Urgent business._ As they approached the White House, Thomas could see the faint golden light streaming out of the windows of the tall, majestic, forbidding building, pathetically setting apart the cold, dreary dampness of the exterior from the shining ballroom, embellished with dashing billionaires and gem-like ladies of prominence. As he pulled the reins to stop the horses, Thomas was already jumping down, ignoring the splash of muddy rain that soaked his legs and trickled down into his shoes as he ran for the Doorman, who looked up as he approached.

After a few words, Thomas returned to the carriage, opening the door. His passenger sat motionless, slumped against the wall of the carriage. His heart pounded. Weakly, yet in a voice harsh with fear, he whispered, “Mr. Carroll?”

A faint stir put Thomas slightly more at ease. He wasn’t dead, then. But by the looks of it, he was close. Close or not, the elderly gentleman’s mind was in no way dull. Surveying Thomas’s face with resignation, he sighed. “So he’s not coming.”

Thomas hesitated. “The doorman said- he said the president was busy. Mr. Carroll-,”

Carroll’s back arched, and for a second Thomas thought he was seizing before he realized this was only Carroll’s attempt at sitting up. “Thomas- Thomas, the treasure, I…” Carroll interrupted himself with a hacking, wet cough that spewed blood into his already-soiled handkerchief. Eyes wide, Thomas backed away. “Mr. Carroll… Mr. Carroll, you need a doctor.” He turned away to yell for help, but a wizened hand grabbed his lapels with surprising force, yanking him into the carriage. Thomas yelped as he found himself face-to-face with the man.

“Now listen to me,” said Carroll, voice temporarily strong, “you must listen, and you must never forget. You hear me? Never.”

_A Retirement Home, 1989_

“So what did he tell him?” Dean said eagerly, bouncing up and down on the pouffe in front of his grandfather. “What was the treasure about?”

John Sr. Winchester smiled at his ten-year-old grandson. “The treasure? Well, it all started in Egypt, around 2000 B.C. when slaves looted a Pharaoh’s tomb. And you know what they found on the wall?” Without giving his grandson a chance to answer, John leaned forwards on his cane and gazed intently into Dean’s eyes. “The all-seeing eye, and the unfinished pyramid.”

Dean frowned. “The what?”

John gestured impatiently. “The all-seeing eye! The triangle with the eye within it, and the pyramid with the top missing.” He pulled out a wrinkled 1$ bill and straightened it out, showing John the symbols printed on the paper. Dean’s eyes widened, and John smiled. “Masonic symbols.”

“Masonic?”

“Yes, from the Freemasons. Don’t worry, I’ll get to that. The treasure bounced around the world from thief to coloniser to plunderer until it reached Jerusalem in 70 A.D. Only by then it had grown!” John swished his hand in a sudden upwards motion, and Dean jumped. But John, who was really getting into the story now, barely noticed. “Roman soldiers came for it this time, and it wasn’t just Egyptian gold and gems now. Copper scrolls. Gold menorahs. Gold reliefs of gods.” John wrinkled his nose. “There was one of Bas, I believe.” Before Dean had time to ask who that was, John went on with the story. “The fascinating part is that the very temple they found it in had-,”

“Masonic symbols,” Dean jumped in eagerly, and John blinked, remembering Dean’s presence as if for the first time. He smiled and nodded. “Yes. The-,”

“All-seeing eye and unfinished pyramid,” finished Dean. John nodded.

“The next time it was found was in France.”

_A church in France, 14 th Century_

Pounding echoed on the walls of the church as a group of knights huddled together, unified by the Masonic sign on their armor, and drew straws one by one. A gasp and a murmur echoed through the group as one knight drew a short straw. Glances were briefly exchanged before the chosen one quickly stripped away his armor, the other knights assuming their positions, palms sweaty, ready to die, against the soldiers pounding on the church doors. Just as the odd knight out, wearing monk’s robe, slipped out, the doors of the church broke open with a deafening _creaack_ and soldiers, hollering and shouting, streamed in through the doors. Each knight raised his arm, ready to fight to death for their brotherhood in the full knowledge that they were, indeed, fighting to the death. To their death. They were outnumbered. All would perish.

All except one, wearing a monk’s robe, leading a caravan through the forest. A caravan containing a treasure centuries old. And while this one survivor escaped, heart pounding, eyes blurred by tears for the fate of his brethren.

Rightly so, for after the outnumbered knights were captured, each one was burned alive at the stake under King Philip’s watchful eye.

_A Retirement Home, 1983_

Dean’s heart pounded, and he stared at his grandfather, eyes wide in horror. “But the knights…” he shook off his disgust. “What about the one knight?”

“The Templar Knights, to be precise. The few who escaped boarded the Santa Maria. They were fugitives. They developed codes. They took the treasure-,”

“No, Grandpa, that can’t be right,” Dean corrected. “The Santa Maria was Christopher Columbus’s ship.”

John looked at him, eyes twinkling with mirth.

Dean’s jaw went slack. “ _Christopher Columbus was a-,”_

“They took the treasure, and they ran. The treasure once again moved from continent to continent to hiding place to hiding place, amassing new volume each time, until it was finally hidden in one secure place. Now, the Templar Knights didn’t survive-,”

“No!” wailed Dean, and John gave him a stern look.

“- _because_ they became the Freemasons-,”

“Oh,” muttered Dean foolishly, and John shook his head.

“And more people were Freemasons than you’d think. Patrick Henry, Benjamin Franklin, George Washington, Count Casimir Pulaski-,”

“Who?”

“He was a soldier who fought in the Continental Army during the Revolutionary War in 1779. He was shot, and when his body was inspected, they found a Masonic ring, and a piece of paper with a clue.”

John’s voice had dropped to a whisper, and Dean leaned forward, eyes wide, to hear the clue.

John paused for dramatic effect, then whispered, “Charlotte.”

Dean wrinkled his nose. “Who’s Charlotte?”

John shrugged. “I don’t know. But…” he held up a finger. “That was what Carroll told Thomas. _Charlotte._ To find the treasure, find _Charlotte._  Tell the president. Tell no one else.”

Dean gasped. “And then?

“And then he died.”

“Thomas died?”

John glared at Dean. “Are you really asking me whether my ancestor died when he was ten years old?”

“I guess not,” said Dean sheepishly. Then he remembered something. “The President! He never heard the clue!”

“Well, he did,” said John, settling himself back into his chair with a sigh. “Because he came to see Carroll, even though it was too late. But Andrew Jackson was a no-nonsense man, with no time for buried treasure. So Jackson brushed off the clue Thomas gave him. But Thomas didn’t forget Carroll’s words. And he never, ever forgot. Every generation of Winchesters- _every_ _single one-_ has looked for Charlotte. And no one has ever found her.”

“Maybe it’s an anagram,” Dean suggested.

John frowned at the thought. “So… hotel crate?”

“There’s only one e. So… hotel _cart._ Or tear cloth. Or teal torch. Or Rachel Ott.”

John raised an eyebrow. “How did you come up with those so quickly?”

Dean blushed, raising and lowering a shoulder. John smiled, leaning back. “You might even find her yourself.”

“How will I know?”

John pushed the 1$ bill towards him and watched Dean’s eye light upon the mysterious drawings. “The Masonic symbols.”

“You’re quick,” appraised John approvingly. “You’ve got a good chance of finding her.”

“He’s got a good chance of getting into Harvard, too.”

Dean and John looked up to see a disapproving Mary standing there, hands on hips. “Hello, dad.” She stooped and pressed a kiss to John’s cheek. “Mary,” said John meekly. “I was just giving Dean a little history lesson.”

“History lesson, huh,” Mary snorted. Then she turned to Dean. “You’re smarter than us lot, huh? Don’t waste your life chasing fairy tales that won’t come true.”

_The Arctic, Present Day (2018)_

**_ BEEP.  _ ** **_BEEP._ ** _BEEP._

“We’re losing her.”

_Beep. beep._ _beep._ _beep._ _beep._ _beep…._

Dean Winchester balanced his laptop on his knee, a shiver running through him from where he sat in the freezing, moving Snowcat. His eyes glued to the screen, he carefully monitored the red and blue dots moving in complex patterns on his laptop. He turned his head towards the driver without taking his eyes off the screen. “Left, here.”

With a shake of her head to get the red hair out of her face, Charlie twisted the wheel to veer across the frozen landscape. “Are you sure you know where we’re going, Dean?”

Dean ignored her in favor of reaching into his bag and pulling out a clear plastic box. After several failed attempts to open it and a lot of grunting, Charlie glanced briefly over and chuckled. “Really, Dean?”

Dean gave up and tossed the box onto the floor. “Hey, I’m reading 200-year-old data on a laptop. I need all the luck I can get.”

Charlie smirked. “We’ve been over this. Pie and luck are not the same thing.”

“Yes, they are,” contradicted Dean.

Charlie sighed, turning serious. “Look, Dean, can we please stop? We’ve been out here for weeks and weeks. Compared to this, my tattoo was a genius, well-thought-out plan. Like you said, your data is ANCIENT, and I don’t trust anything ancient.”

Dean absently surveyed the graph on his screen. “But you’re a hacker.”

“Exactly!”

“Binary code was inspired by a 5000-year-old text.”

Charlie groaned. “Why do I even bother?”

Dean shrugged again. “Besides, it’s not all 200-year-old data. Some of it is from only three generations ago.”

Charlie raised her eyebrows. “Comforting.”

Dean growled, slamming the seat. “I need pie, or the treasure, or both. Preferably both.”

“What about sleep?” Charlie suggested weakly, then relapsed into silence. “Okay. No sleep then. Got it.”

“Hey, you asked to come. I didn’t make you.”

“Yeah, well, only because Sam thinks you’re being stupid, and I couldn’t let you go alone, you’d crash the Snowcat trying to open your pie box. And-,”

A gigantic BEEP interrupted Charlie’s tirade and Dean froze, hunching over his laptop. The dots had mostly consolidated into an odd shape.

Charlie and Dean exchanged hopeful, weary glances.

“Maybe it’s a whale,” offered Charlie.

Dean looked at the window at the bleak, frozen Arctic.

“Okay, a _frozen_ whale.”

“It’s not a frozen whale.” Dean breathed the words out almost reverently, because _finally,_ _finally, finally._ He clambered out of the vehicle, barely remembering his ice ax. Charlie scrambled out behind him as he paced the ice, looking down. “Dean, what are you looking for?”  


Dean ignored her, pacing until he saw something that made him freeze. He paused, stock still, as Charlie approached, then his ice ax arched violently up and back down again onto the thick layer of freeze. Charlie yelped as a woman’s face came into view, frozen solid.

“Okay! No! No! Not this!”

“Charlie-,”

“You told me we were looking for Charlotte, but I didn’t think we were literally going to find a corpse-,”

“CHARLIE!” Dean yelled. “It’s made of wood.”

Charlie blinked. “What?”

Dean knelt, chipping away the ice, heart pounding, breathless, fingers tingling with cold and excitement. “It’s a figurehead.”

Realization must have dawned on Charlie, because she said in an awestruck voice, “Charlotte’s a ship.”

Dean grinned. “Charlie? Radio base camp.”

_Later_

Charlie and Dean watched three snowmobiles glide to a stop near the scene. Charlie nervously shifted the pole they were using to measure depth back and forth between her hands. “Dean,” she whispered. “I _really_ hope you’re not wrong about this.”

Dean miserably thought of all the money riding on what they were doing. “Me too”

Fergus Crowley got out of his snowcat, striding across the ice towards them. “Winchester! Bradbury!”

“’Sup, bitches!” Charlie called nervously, and Crowley glared at her. Dean cracked a smile, leaning towards her. “Yeah, I don’t think ‘Sup, Bitches’ is the best greeting for a forty-year old British guy.”

“Helpful, Dean,” Charlie snarked out of the corner of her mouth, and Dean grinned, the elation of the day getting to him.

“Winchester,” repeated Crowley as he neared. “Where is she?”

Dean nodded his head towards the now-exposed figurehead. A smile that Dean had to admit was borderline creepy stretched across Crowley’s face. “Beautiful,” he breathed, bending to run a hand down the side of the face and slipping his fingers underneath her chin.

“Okay, that’s definitely creepy,” Charlie muttered to Dean, and he had to agree.

Crowley got to his feet, his eerily intent gaze settling upon Charlie. “I have founded mission, after mission, after mission, and now finally…” He shook his head, creepy grin in place, surveying the mostly-covered frigate.

“But we’re all gonna be rich now,” called Charlie nervously, “and I can move to Hollywood and seduce Scarlet Johansson, so we’re all good, right?”

“No,” came a voice from behind them. All three turned to see Shaw, Crowley’s silent, stoic right-hand man standing there. Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Who did this jerk think he was?

“Excuse me?” said Crowley, stepping towards his assistant. Shaw swallowed. “Sir, Winchester said a 100-foot frigate. The GPR shows this as only being 81-feet.”

“It’s canted,” Charlie called out, and all three turned to her. She shrugged. “GPR is 2-dimensional. This ship, it’s in 3D. So it’s canted. Tipped. Tilted. Whatever.” She pulled a piece of paper out of her jacket pocket. “I did the calculations. It’s tipped around 35 degrees, so the stern’s around 57 feet down.”

“FIFTY-SEVEN-,” Crowley hissed. “Do you know how long that’s take to dig out?”

“No,” Dean shrugged. “Because we don’t have to.” Charlie slammed her pole down on the ice, and a _whoosh_ of wind escaped.

 “Air pocket.” Dean grinned excitedly. “Who’s ready to search a ghost ship?”


	2. Iron Pen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The situation escalates in the ghost ship.

Once Crowley’s men had secured the ship with ropes and spikes, Charlie, Dean and Crowley clipped on climbing harnesses and hastily affixed ice crampons to their boots. Dean exhaled slowly. This was it. This was _it._  He had found it. He was the first Winchester to have found _Charlotte._ He thought back to that day in the retirement home all those years ago.

“You were right, John,” he whispered. “You were always right.”

“Uh, Dean?”

Dean snapped back to reality as Charlie called him from where she stood near where Crowley was lowering himself into the ship. She raised her eyebrows at him. “You okay?”

Dean grinned at her by way of reply and made his way over, clambering over the ice and following her down into the _Charlotte._

Once they were all down, they stood there for a minute, surrounded by the immensity of all, by the immensity of being the first to have found the _Charlotte,_ the first to have got this far on the hunt for the Templar treasure. Crowley punctuated the silence with a low, long whistle, looking around. Dean cleared his throat, turning to face the others. “Right, spread out. Charlie-,”

“Take the berthing quarters.” Crowley stepped in between them, gaze shrewd. “I’ll take the cargo hold. You can take the captain’s cabin.”

Dean glared at Crowley, wanting to protest, but made no objection as they each moved toward their respective parts of the ship. Each step caused the ship to let out an ominous _creak_ and were it not for the fact that Dean knew the ship was safely secured in place, he would’ve hightailed it out of there pronto. Dean adjusted his communicator and spoke into the other two’s ears. “Find anything?”

“Nope,” Charlie’s cheerful voice sounded a little dampened. Dean chuckled. “Something wrong, Charlie?”

“No,” she squeaked. “There are just a lot of dead people. And I mean, a lot.”

This time, Dean’s chuckle was joined by a snicker from Crowley, which instantly dampened Dean’s mood. Crowley had sent Charlie to the berthing quarters; and Dean didn’t like how disempowered they were compared to the British man. This was his hunt; the _Winchesters’_ hunt, not Crowley’s. This wasn’t about the money, this was about history.

Dean heard a beeping through the comms as Crowley’s metal detector went off. “Anything, Crowls?” he called, trying to stay calm. There was the sound of a creaking hinge as a reply, followed by a hollow thud. “Dishes,” came the accented voice. “Keep looking.”

Swallowing his resentment and growing unease at the way Crowley was taking control, Dean swept his flashlight over the captain’s cabin. Nothing except a pocket watch that might be of some value. Dean pocketed it, then turned to leave, sweeping the floor with his flashlight. A gas lamp stood on the table, and Dean pulled out his lighter and lit it, giving a final look to the cabin.

He froze.

Deep scratches were on the floor. Dean knelt, brushing a hand against them, then stood and followed the scratches until he reached the desk. Dean grunted, kneeling and putting his shoulder against the desk. Grunting and heaving, he shoved the desk out of the way, and his eyes widened.

A trapdoor.

_Bingo._

Dean pulled open the trapdoor with a ear-piercing squeak and leapt down, his heart sinking once he took in the sight. Barrels, presumably full of gunpowder. He pulled out a plug, and the black powder spilled slowly into a pile. Dean sighed, giving the room a final look. He did a double take when he saw the boots.

Crossing the room, he surveyed the body with faint interest. The captain, presumably; leaning against a barrel, holding a gun.

A gun?

“Why a gun?” he muttered, kneeling beside the body. “What?” asked Charlie, confused, but he ignored her. “What is it, Winchester?” came the question from the other explorer. He ignored Crowley’s query as well, but then footsteps resonated, and Charlie’s red head of hair poked down through the trapdoor.

“Come on,” Dean said quietly, gesturing with his head.

Charlie jumped down and crossed over, the light in her eyes fading fast when she saw it was just another body. “What’s so special about this one?”

The question came from Crowley, who had obviously made his way down. Dean gritted his teeth and turned to face the body. “It’s the body of the captain.”

Dean had to give Crowley credit, he caught on fast. “Why was the captain in the gunpowder bay?”

Charlie finished the question. “And why is he guarding a barrel of gunpowder?”

Adrenaline rushed through Dean’s blood. “Because it’s NOT gunpowder.” But when he ripped the lid off the barrel, it was indeed gunpowder. Dean frowned.

Charlie elbowed past him, shoving her arms into the barrel. Dean sighed and turned around to leave, only to find his way blocked by Crowley, who was staring intently behind him at Charlie. Dean turned around towards Charlie again to see her holding a tiny box.

“Little Hunting Creek, Virginia,” read Charlie off the top, confused. She opened it to see a pipe.

“Ivory,” whispered Crowley, lifting it. Dean didn’t ask how he knew. Instead, he and Charlie exchanged glances, stepping closer to Crowley.

Suddenly Dean snapped his fingers and pointed at Charlie. “It’s a Meerschaum pipe. 18th century.”

“Quite common,” said Crowley dismissively, looking disappointed. “Is this your… _treasure?_ ”

Dean frowned, looking at the box. _Little Hunting Creek._ Where had he heard that before?

Charlie spoke up. “I’ve never heard of Little Hunting Creek.”

“Nor I,” added Crowley. “Although I’m from across the pond, so.”

“George Washington,” Dean said aloud.

“What?” Charlie frowned.

“The Washington family renamed Little Hunting Creek to Mount Vernon.”

“So, it’s George Washington’s pipe.” Charlie shrugged. “Who cares?”

Dean threw her a dirty look. It was _history._ It _mattered._

“Maybe it leads us to the treasure,” Crowley said, looking up at them with a perfect poker face.

“Maybe,” Dean squinted at the pipe, rubbing it. Suddenly Charlie snatched it from him. “Hey!”

“Give me a knife.”

“What?” Dean’s eyes widened. “You are _not_ going to just saw away at a pipe from-,”

“ _No,_ Dean,” Charlie’s voice reverberated with annoyance. “Just give me the knife.”

Dean handed it over, and Charlie pulled out the paper she’d done the calculations for the angle of the ship on. Then with gritted teeth, she drew the knife across her thumb, leaving a long streak of blood.

Dean yelped and leapt forwards. “What the _hell,_ Charlie?”

Ignoring him, Charlie winced, rolling the pipe’s sides in her blood. As she did so, Dean noticed slight raised shapes on the outside of the pipe. Cluing in on what Charlie was doing, he held the paper for her as she rolled the bloody pipe on it, leaving an imprint of symbols.

“Templar symbols,” breathed Crowley, wide-eyed.

“What do they say?” Charlie asked, waving her thumb in the cool air.

“Symbols don’t _say_ anything, idiot,” Crowley grumbled, grabbing the paper. “But there are letters. A riddle. _The legend writ, the stain effected. The key in Silence undetected. Fifty-five in iron pen. Mr. Matlack can’t offend.”_

“Aaaaand I have no idea what that means,” Charlie offered helpfully.

Dean grabbed the paper, examining it. “The key in Silence undetected. So there is a key.”

Crowley squinted at him. “An undetected key.”

“A hidden key.”

“A hidden map.”

“So we need to find a treasure map, got it. Next!” Charlie chirped.

Crowley glared at her, but said nothing. “Iron pen. Iron manacles? Iron bars. 55 men. Or 1755?”

Dean looked up. “Timothy Matlack was the official scribe of the Continental Congress….” He snapped as the realization came to him. “The ink back then, it-,”

“-was iron-based,” Crowley finished.

“So a writer? It says scribe,” Charlie puzzled.

“Calligrapher, actually,” Dean corrected. “But I don’t understand, why can’t Matlack offend?”

“Maybe he died? No, scratch that, he definitely died. I mean maybe-,” Crowley cut Charlie off. “Offend as in offend a person, or a document?”

“But how can you offend a document?” It didn’t make sense to Dean. “Unless you…,”

“-wrote over it,” Charlie suggested.

Crowley and Dean stared at her.

“Okay, yeah, that was stupid,” she admitted.

“No,” Dean said as a smile slowly dawned on his face. “He didn’t write over it. He wrote-,”

“Under it.” Crowley frowned. “So the treasure map is on the back of something Mr. Matlack wrote.”

“So, what did he write?” Charlie asked.

“The Constitution, the Bill of Rights, the…” Dean’s jaw went slack.

“What? What? What?” Charlie asked, sounding nervous.

“The Declaration of Independence,” Dean said, his own voice sounding hoarse to him. “Signed by fifty-five men.”

Silence fell in the cabin.

Dean couldn’t believe it. This was it. He had solved the riddle, and now? Nothing. All this time, this effort, this hope… for nothing. He had failed, like every Winchester before him, and like every Winchester after him.

“So that’s it,” he said, his voice hollow. “The end of the line.”

Crowley tilted his head. “What makes you say that?”

Dean groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. “ _Because,_ Crowley. The Declaration is the most important document in this country. Not even the President gets to look at it alone or without several layers of security over top of it.”

“So we borrow it.”

Dean looked up sharply. “What?”

Crowley looked at the pipe thoughtfully, then pocketed it. The hairs on the back of Dean’s neck rose in apprehension. “Well, come on now, Dean. The treasure of the Templars. Countless amounts of gold, of money, of artifacts, of history.” Charlie shifted her feet nervously, and Dean couldn’t help but feel uneasy. He didn’t like where this was going. “You’re really going to let a rule stand in your way?”

“Yes,” Dean said, though he could hardly believe he was saying it. “Crowley, you’re- you’re insane. You’re going to steal the Declaration of Independence so you can- what? Get rich? You’re _already_ rich, Crowley.”

“Imagine it.” Crowley’s eyes gleamed. “All that gold. All that _history_ you so love.”

The worst part was Dean _could_ imagine it. And it was so horribly tempting. But he shook his head. “No. Crowley, we’re not doing this. And I’m not letting you do it, either.”

Then all of a sudden a gun was pointed at him, and Dean froze. Crowley smiled at him coldly. “I don’t believe you two have much of a choice.”

Dean swallowed nervously, very aware of the terrified Charlie next to him. “I don’t think you want to kill me before I tell you the rest.”

Despite himself, Crowley looked intrigued. “Of?”

“The riddle. The clues.”

Crowley tilted his head, considering, then grabbed Charlie and pressed the gun into her head. “How about this? You tell me the clues, and I shoot you. Or you don’t, and I shoot you both?”

Charlie squeaked. “Wait! I know the clue!”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Of course you do, sweetheart.” He cocked the gun and Charlie tensed. “Ah ah ah ah, Dean, come on, okay,” she swallowed nervously.

Dean’s eyes darted around the room, looking for a way out.

He took a deep breath, then swallowed, holding up his hands.

“Okay.”

He stepped back, and then pulled out his lighter and flicked it on, holding it over the trapdoor to the gunpowder room.

Crowley’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”

Dean quirked his eyebrows in what he hoped was a menacing way. “Try me, Crowls.”

The lighter flickered out.

Damn it.

Before he could realize what a terrible idea it was, Dean tackled Crowley and Charlie and pulled the girl behind the desk. Instantly, Crowley opened fire. Charlie screamed as bullets dug into the wood around them, then there was a high-pitched crash and low _whoosh._ Dean glanced around the room and then crawled to his feet, eyes wide as he watched the gas lantern he’d lit, which had now crashed to the floor, send tendrils of flame licking down towards the gunpowder room.

He and Crowley’s eyes met for a second, and then Crowley dashed out, battening the door shot behind him. Dean cursed, ramming the door with his shoulder, but it was stuck shut. Behind him, Charlie crawled over to fire, trying to smother it with an old sackcloth. It wasn’t working, and embers were already floating down into the gunpowder room. Charlie abandoned the fire and ran over to Dean, slamming their shoulders into the door. With each push the door grew weaker, but it wasn’t fast enough, and just one glimpse of Charlie’s terrified, soot-blackened face, was enough to rekindle the doubts he’d had about bringing this kid along with him. It was at the moment where he was about to apologize that they stumbled through and Charlie yanked him to his feet. They dashed out of the cabin together and ducked as exploding windows threw sharp glass around the room. A sharp piece grazed along Dean’s neck and a white-hot pain set his neck on fire. The heat licked at his legs and the deck felt weaker. Charlie turned towards him, panting. “He pulled up the ladders,” she said, panic creeping into her voice, and Dean nearly died of heart failure right there and then. “He-,” then she froze.

“What?” asked Dean. “What is it?”

Charlie ran past him, scrambling over the deck to a swivel cross-bow harpoon mounted on the deck. Dean, realizing what she was up to, joined her, and together they wheeled the harpoon around. “Here’s hoping this works,” panted Charlie, and Dean turned to see her, steely-eyed and sooty-faced, eyes squinting, face fearless for the moment, and remembered _exactly_ why he’d brought her along as the spear launched up and into the ice cave roof. The ice and snow came tumbling down into a pile, and Dean ran towards it as the heat grew more and more intense, and the sound of crackling grew louder and louder. “Come on!” he yelled over the raging inferno, and they pulled each other up and over the ridge of the ice onto the ice. Dean wanted to collapse right there, but the fire creeping through gunpowder was still fresh in his mind and he tugged Charlie to her feet. “Run!” he yelled, and dragged Charlie with him over the ice. Together they stumbled and ran until an explosion shook the ground beneath their feet and they fell, breathless, onto the cold ground beneath them.

Dean let himself lay there, for a long moment, panting in the silence after the blast. Charlie was lying beside him, eyes closed, relief painted in clean strokes on her face. After a moment, Dean pulled himself up and surveyed their surroundings, letting out a growl. “What? What is it?” Charlie groaned, pulling herself into a sitting position.

“Crowley,” Dean sighed. “He’s gone. And he’s going to steal the Declaration of Independence.”

Charlie groaned, flopping back onto her back. “Dude, I just survived an _explosion._ I was nearly _shot._ Dude wants to get himself arrested? I’m perfectly fine with that, thank you.”

“But this is the _declaration,_ Dean argued. “ _The_ Declaration.”

“Okay, yeah, I got it,” Charlie waved a hand, then let it flop back onto the ice. “No need to wax poetic about it. You always make me sick when you start going _on and on and on_  about this teapot or that mask or-,”

“Charlie, if Crowley gets the Declaration, he gets thousands of years’ worth of treasure. And it’s all his.”

Charlie considered this. “Okay. What do we do, then?”

_The National Archives, Rotunda- One Week Later_

“Note the 56 signatures,” Dean said, nudging Charlie as they took in the sight of the Declaration of Independence. “The riddle said 55, but the 56th was actually added two years after the Charlotte went missing.”

“Cool,” Charlie said, sounding thoroughly unimpressed. “But it’s still here. So, obviously, we’re good. Can we leave now?”

Dean sighed, turning to walk out the doors. Charlie ran to catch up with him. As they strode out the doors. Charlie turned backwards to walk facing Dean. “Dean, clearly-,”

Dean grabbed the lapels of Charlie’s ridiculously obnoxious blazer and yanked her behind a column. Charlie squeaked. “What-,”

“Look,” Dean muttered, and they both peeked out from behind the column to see a distinctive, pudgy little British man photograph the Archives, then board a black sedan and motion the driver to leave.

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me,” sighed Charlie. “They’re just going to-,”

“Steal the Declaration of Independence? Oh yeah,” Dean muttered, chuckling darkly.

“But he can’t just- Dean!” Charlie called after him as he turned and strode away. She rolled her eyes, running to catch up to him. “Dean, I bet the archives have some- some crazy security, and-,”

Dean stopped. “They do.”

Charlie frowned. “Why do I feel like there’s a but?”

“Because there _is._ ” Dean squinted into the sun, but didn’t’ elaborate.

“Okay…” Charlie trailed off. “Why don’t we just tell them?”

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it again. He frowned. “Tell who?”

_The National Archives Office Lobby, Two Hours Later_

Dean rolled his eyes as the door opened to the elevator and he and Charlie stepped into the lobby. Dean turned to look at Charlie. “I’ll do the talking.”

“Nuh-huh,” Charlie whispered to him. “Telling them was my idea. You’ll screw it up.”

Dean snorted. This kid. Charlie elbowed him, and he frowned. “What? I can snort. It’s not a library.” Charlie glared at him, and they fell into silence.

“DR: CASTIEL NOVAK, CHARTERS OF FREEDOM CUSTODIAN,” read Dean off the stencilled office door. He frowned. Castiel Novak? As in, the angel Castiel? Whoever this guy was, his parents obviously were either the evillest or most pretentious pricks in the world. He turned to Charlie, ready to remark on it, when the door opened and a messy-haired, frowning man looked at them. “Hello,” he said, in a deep, gravelly voice that made Dean a little nervous. Dean cleared his throat. “Hello. We’re- um-,” He turned to Charlie, scratching the back of his head.

Dr. Novak stepped back. “Perhaps your business would be more comfortably discussed inside my office, sir… and miss,” he added courteously, nodding to Charlie. Charlie beamed at him sunnily and walked inside, taking in the walls with obvious interest. Dr. Novak walked around to his desk and sat down. Dean lowered himself into one of the armchairs facing Dr. Novak’s desk, and Charlie did the same. “Now, how may I help you?”

Charlie started to talk, but Dean tuned her out, examining Dr. Novak. He had an open, earnest, perpetually concerned expression, and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen on human beings. He snapped back to attention just as Charlie was saying, “And then this crazy guy pulled a _gun_ on us-,”

“I - see,” said Novak hesitatingly, glancing at Dean, and Dean realized once again just how blue his eyes were. “Perhaps this complaint would be better directed towards Homeland security, instead of-,”

“Someone’s going to steal the Declaration of Independence.” Dean blurted out, and Charlie glared at him.

Novak didn’t even look surprised. Dean couldn’t blame him. He probably got this all the time.

“All terrorist threats must be reported directly to the FBI,” said Novak in a bland, toneless voice. Charlie chimed in. “No, these aren’t terrorists, they’re treasure hunters.”

Novak froze from where he had braced his arms on the armrests of his chair to get up and looked at her from under raised eyebrows. “Treasure hunters.”

“Ye-es,” Charlie faltered, glancing at Dean, who looked away.

“Well- forgive me, but what do treasure hunters want the Declaration of Independence for?” The question was asked stiffly, Novak’s gaze flicking from Dean to Charlie, looking slightly concerned.

Charlie glanced at Dean again, but Dean was studying the carpet. “Because- ,” she faltered, “There’s a treasure map on the back.”

Novak blinked.

“We found a pipe, and it said so.” Charlie added. Dean wanted to bash his head against the desk.

Novak opened his mouth, nodding, then settled for simply saying, “Oh.”

Dean decided to speak up. “Look, I know it sounds crazy-,”

“Mr- What are you names?”

“Eliza Jeffries and John Downey,” Dean said quickly. Charlie shot him a confused look.

“Yes. Well, Mr. Downey, Miss Jeffries I can assure you there is no map. I have seen the Declaration and it is just a treasure map. You have my word on that.”

Dean looked up. “Have you touched it?”

Novak looked startled. “No.”

Dean leaned across the desk towards Novak. “That must be frustrating. Being able to look and not touch.”

If anything, now Novak looked even more confused.

“Well- may I see the pipe?”

“We- don’t have it,” Charlie faltered.

“I see,” said the straight-faced Dr. Novak. Then, with an entirely unexpected show of sass, he leaned forwards and gazed into Dean’s eyes, asking intently, “Did Bigfoot take it?”

_Outside the Lincoln Monument, twelve minutes later_

Charlie paced around Dean from where he sat on the steps, thinking. “We have to stop him,” Charlie said at last, stopping and turning to face Dean. Dean looked up at her. “We can’t just let the guy who tried to kill us get rich over a riddle we solved for him!”

“ _I_ solved for him,” Dean pointed out. Charlie rolled her eyes. “Well, I _found_ the riddle. _AND_ I taught you to use GPR. So….,” Dean looked at her, then stood. “No, you’re right. I’m sorry.” He took a few steps down, then sat down again. Charlie sighed, turning away. She _was_ a genius, but sometimes she doubted having thrown in her lot with this weirdo.

“Hey, Charlie?”

“Yeah?”

Dean’s next words were carefully measured. “We can’t stop Crowley from stealing the Declaration.”

Charlie sighed. “No, I guess not.”

“Unless...” Dean trailed off. “Unless, we get to it first.”

Uh-oh. “What? You’re gonna WHAT?” asked Charlie, praying she’d misheard or misunderstood him. But she hadn’t. Dean Winchester was sitting there on the steps in front of the Lincoln monument, and he’d just said the seven words she’d never expected ANYONE to say to her.

Dean nodded, standing and dusting himself off. “Get ready, Charlie. We’re gonna steal the Declaration of Independence.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment, kudos, etcetera.


	3. The Heist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I said CROWLEY can’t hack in. You happen to have someone who gave up a good life at Intel to go treasure-hunting with a maniac sitting right in front of you.”  
> Dean grinned, and they high-fived as discreetly as possibly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's do this.

_Library of Congress, Reading room_

Dean looked up as Charlie slid into a chair opposite him. “So,” she sighed, pulling out her laptop. “What are we up against?”

Dean grinned. Despite Charlie’s indignation and disbelief at the fact that _they were going to steal the Declaration of Independence,_ she was a Winchester through and through. He remembered the day they’d met with a pang, back when Sam hadn’t left for Cambridge yet. His younger brother had won a full scholarship to Cambridge’s law school, all the way in England. Sam had never been a treasure hunter, not the way Dean had been. He’d been more like Mary; determined the search for _Charlotte_ was a waste of time. Granted, he kept it to himself, seeing his older brother’s enthusiasm; and Dean would be the first to admit he had been more than a little hurt to realize his brother had been faking it all those years. At last, the night Sam had announced he was off to Cambridge, they’d had a huge fight born more out of mutual concern and regret than real anger, and although each had discreetly kept tabs of the other; for example, Dean knew Sam’s address and did some slight online stalking once in a while (“It’s not stalking, it’s called being concerned,” he protested when Charlie called him out on it, they weren’t really close. And to tell the truth, Dean was secretly still a little resentful of some of the words Sam had said to him.

He pulled himself back to the present. He shifted in his chair, gesturing at the schematics in front of him. The top paper was a blueprint of the National Archives. Dean cleared his throat. “So. Every night, the Declaration is lowered into this huge vault-room-thingy, right below the Rotunda-,” Dean paused to find the exact location on the blueprint, and showed Charlie the path the document would take down to the Vault Room.

“Then it’s encased in a 50-ton, steel vault. This thing’s got some serious mojo. It can survive heat, cold, a thousand years of nuclear winter, whatever. The journey takes two minutes.”

Charlie nodded. “So those two minutes are our opening. And that means…,”

“They’re also Crowley’s.”

“Got it.” Charlie let out a long breath, leaning back in her chair, and sweeping her gaze around the 19th century-style room. “You said every night?”

Dean frowned. “Yeah, why?”

Charlie swung her head around to face him. “Because, that means guards everywhere. I mean, they put this much work into their security system, they’re not gonna _forget_ that it’s vulnerable for two minutes.”

Dean’s heart sank. “Right.” Then an idea struck him. “If the Document was lowered randomly, when there _aren’t_ guards everywhere on both ends- he could _hack_ in!”

“Nope.” Charlie leaned forwards, eyes intent on her laptop as she whirled it around to face Dean. “Look.”

Dean squinted at the screen. “I’m not a hacker, Charlie. I don’t know what this means.”

“It _means_ that like most old government facilities, this place uses the old Data-Link encryption-based security system.” Charlie’s eyes flicked up and down her laptop as she turned it back around to face her. “Only a handful of people know how to get in, but once you get in, _you’re in._ We’re talking nothing stopping you. You could do whatever the hell you wanted,” she finished, shrugging at Dean with a little shake of her head, expression serious.

“Right.” Dean pushed away from the table with a frustrated sigh, running a hand over his face with a frustrated sigh. “So we’re screwed.”

Charlie’s eyes flicked up at him, twinkling. “No, we’re not.”

Dean frowned. “You said-,”

“I said _Crowley_ can’t hack in. You happen to have someone who gave up a good life at Intel to go treasure-hunting with a maniac sitting right in front of you.”

Dean grinned, and they high-fived as discreetly as possibly.

_Green Line Subway Tunnel, the Next Day_

Dean hurried along the tracks, Charlie’s footsteps following close behind. His flashlight swept the dank, dark walls and he shivered a bit. “I don’t like this,” Charlie whispered. “What about trains?”

“It passed right before we jumped down,” Dean answered absent-mindedly, coming to a sudden sop and crouching down, slinging his backpack to the ground in front of him. He pulled out a bolt cutter and went to work on the heavily locked public works substation. Once they were in, Dean pulled out a hand-held electrical saw and cut a hole in one of the PVC pipes along the ceiling. Meanwhile, Charlie pulled out a toy tractor truck. Dean gave her a look, and she shrugged. “It’s inconspicuous. And easy to alter.”

Once the truck was in the pipes, the camera activated, Charlie pulled out her laptop and Dean crouched beside her, watching her work, yet understanding little of it. “Gotcha,” Charlie whispered, and Dean saw a giant tangle of colored wires knotted together. He swallowed. “It’s not gonna, uh…,” Charlie turned to face him and he felt silly saying it. He cleared his throat. “Explode if you clip the wrong wire? Or something.”

Charlie blinked at him. “You watch too many movies.”

Carefully, Charlie manipulated the clippers she’d attached to the truck to rest snugly around a chosen red wire.

A window blinked open on Charlie’s laptop screen, showing an empty vault room.

Dean and Charlie fell silent for a moment. _We’re actually doing this. We’re stealing the Declaration of Independence._

_Holy shit._

Charlie looked at Dean. “So, when are we doing it?”

Dean shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “Sometime soon. Before Crowley gets a look-in.”

Charlie was silent for a minute. Then she said, “Let’s do it tomorrow.”

Dean wasn’t drinking coffee, but if he had been, he would’ve spat it out, choked, and/or burned his tongue. “Wha- _tomorrow?_ Are you crazy?”

“Dean, tomorrow is the 75th Anniversary Gala. It’s plastered all over the Archives. Anyone who’s anyone important will be there. So a glitch in the system..,”

“-and the dignitaries are top priority, got it.” Dean grinned at Charlie, feeling a little nervous.

Charlie smiled, turning back to her laptops. “I’ll add Mr. TK to the guest list.”

_National Archives, the next night_

“You look wonderful, Dr. Novak.”

Castiel turned, distracted, to face his colleague, Dr. Margaret Masters. Meg’s confident smirk was embezzled with striking lipstick and she wore a stunning formal gown. Castiel smiled distantly. “Please, call me Castiel.”

“All right, Cas,” Meg said in her sultry voice, stepping closer to Castiel. He sighed inwardly. He would never understand why Castiel- two simple syllables- was so hard for people to pronounce. Trying to change the subject. Cas gestured towards the crowd, trying not to look stiff in his horribly uncomfortable tuxedo. “Tell me, what do you think Laura Secord would have made of all this?”

Meg tilted her head. “She would’ve told you to take an interest in live women for a change.”

 

In the Rotunda, heart pounding, Dean stared at the Declaration of Independence. He almost jumped when Charlie’s voice spoke in his ear. “Everything okay? You look nervous.”

Dean exhaled, shooting a sideways glance at the camera whose view he was directly in. “Christ, Charlie,” he muttered. “Keep your voice down.” His eyes darted around nervously, and he snagged a flute of champagne off a tray being carried past. “You think-,” he cleared his throat. “You think this is a good idea?”

“Even if it isn’t, Crowley’s here, so…”

Dean stiffened. “He is?”

“Yup. Son of a bitch.” Charlie sounded uneasy, and Dean couldn’t blame her. There was something distinctly unsavory about that man, and it wasn’t just the attempt on their life.

Someone behind Dean cleared his throat, and Dean whirled around to see Dr. Novak looking at him quizzically.

“Dr. Novak,” he said loudly, for Charlie’s benefit.

“Mr. TK,” Novak frowned. “I was not aware you would be attending.”

“I made a last-minute donation,” Dean lied quickly, his heartbeat threatening to drown out the noise of the party.

Novak raised his eyebrows.

“So, Dr. Novak-,”

“Castiel, please.”

“Well, Cas-,”

Before Dean could finish “-tiel,” Charlie’s voice, low and urgent, sounded in his ear. “Dean, you need to go. You need to go now.”

Dean was dimly aware of Castiel regarding him curiously. “I’m sorry,” he said, blushing. He downed his entire flute of champagne in one go, resting the glass on a passing waiter’s tray. Under the watchful gaze of Castiel’s impossibly blue eyes, he turned and ran.

An armor dome camera swept the service entrance to the National Archives. Just as it turned away, a tall, well-built man stepped out of the shadows and fired a Taser. Two electrodes latched onto the camera dome and after a few sparks, the camera died.

Shaw regarded the camera with grim satisfaction.

In the security station of the National Archives, a monitor cut to snow. The guard, Woodruff, spoke over his radio. “Ferguson? Go check perimeter camera seven. Leave the service corridor for a second.”

 

In the Rotunda’s guest washroom, Dean drew his wet hands down his face, standing to see a stoic-faced, curious-looking Castiel Novak observing him with interest in the mirror. Dean turned to face him. “Castiel.”

“Mr. TK.” Castiel stepped closer, and Dean gave him a once-over. He was relatively short, about half a head taller than Charlie, but well-built. He looked perhaps a few years older than Dean, but he’d aged well. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, yes,” Dean said casually. “Just feeling the heat.” He stepped past Castiel and left the washroom, but the historian trailed after him.

“And what brings you here tonight, Mr. TK? Looking to foil a theft?”

Dean forced a laugh. “No. High treason.”

Dr. Novak blinked.

Dean stopped in front of the Declaration and gestured. “That’s what these 56 men were doing. Committing high treason. If they’d lost the war, they would all have been killed in horrible, gruesome ways. So let’s toast them.” Dean seized a flute of champagne and raised it high, downed the whole glass once again, then set it down on a table. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He left Dr. Novak staring thoughtfully at the Declaration.

Ferguson pushed open the door to the service entrance. Immediately, Shaw’s Taser hit him squarely in the chest and he was knocked to the floor. Crowley smiled, leading his men as they stepped over the unconscious body on the floor.

In a van outside the National Archives, Charlie cursed as the snowy static on her security camera stayed fuzzy. “Dean, Crowley’s probably inside.”

The response was tense and sotto voce. “I’m on my way, I’m in the Record of America at the moment. I’ll get there first. Get the elevator foyer cameras.”

Charlie pressed a couple keys, and a bolt of electricity rushed from the Enter key through the wires until it reached the tiny antenna on the toy truck in the pipe.

 

In the security station, Woodruff frowned, turning to the guard beside him. “Has Ferguson checked in yet?”

 

Dean hit the “Basement” button, and felt the ground lurch under his feet as the car jerked into motion. “Dean, I’m not seeing Crowley anywhere,” came the worried voice over his comms. Dean tilted his head. “That might be a good thing.”

Charlie sighed. “Now, Dean, remember, on my go, you’ve got two minutes, max.”

Dean set his timer with shaky fingers.

 

In the stairwell, Crowley, Shaw, and two other men, Michael and Natas, crouched near a door. The bolded words “Alarmed Entry. Authorized Access Only,” did nothing to deter them as Crowley pulled out a remote and pressed a button with a grimly satisfied smile.

Across the street from the National Archives, a steel transformer box exploded.

 

In an elevator slowly descending to the basement, Dean watched in horror as the lights flickered out and the elevator stopped abruptly. He shifted his feet. “Talk to me, Charlie.”

 

“That wasn’t me!’ Charlie said, panicked, watching as all her feeds became snowy static. “Crowley cut the-,”

 

Dean froze at the sudden silence. “He cut the what?” When there was no reply, he raised his voice. “HE CUT THE _WHAT,_ CHARLIE?”

“No, he blew a transformer, he caused a- a power outage, he’s triggering the emergency protocol,” Charlie said in his ear. Dean swore. “So what do we do? The Declaration is already heading down."He pressed himself against the elevator doors, trying to pry them open, but they were stuck shut. He threw his hands up. “Charlie, trigger the alarms. We’ll get caught, but so will Crowley-,”f

“Dean, the power outage already tripped them, all of them. The guards are totally helpless.”

“Shit, shit, shit, _shit!”_ Dean snapped.

 

In the security station, everything was going wrong for Woodruff. The surveillance was gone, and so was the main power. “Sir, emergency protocol has been initiated,” called a guard, and Woodruff stood. “Switch to auxiliary. Reboot, run a systems check. Go! Anyone not doing that, get on the floor, protect the guests.”

 

In the Rotunda, Castiel was jerked away from his daydreams as the Declaration slowly lowered itself into the ground. He frowned, oblivious to the alarms ringing everywhere. Something was definitely wrong here.

As the auxiliary power kicked in and a Guard stepped forwards to explain, Castiel caught Meg’s eye across the room. They looked at each other warily, then Castiel turned back towards the descending Declaration, trying to think why he felt so uneasy.

 

Dean almost fell over as the elevator resumed its descent. “Charlie,” he said, heart pounding. “Yeah, yeah, okay, um, you still got 96 seconds,” Charlie said, sounding harried. Dean tapped his foot nervously. “Come on, come on, come on,” he muttered…

 

…as Shaw finished cutting through the stairwell door…

…Castiel swallowed, watching the Declaration disappear. Something was definitely not right here…

…Crowley charged down the stairs ahead of his men…

…Dean dashed over to the steel Vault Room Door, scanning the keyboard pad. Pulling out a blue light, he hovered it over the pad, scanning the keypad keys with UV fingerprints left on them. Dean spoke into his comms. “Charlie, you got this?”

“Hit me,” she said, and Dean read out, “A-E-F-G-L-O-R-V-Y,”

“Okay, um,” a beat, and then, “Dean, I’m getting _a very golf, Fargo levy, gravy flowe…._ What do these mean?”

“Nothing.” Dean snapped. “No, it’s Valley Forge.”

Charlie sighed. “History thing?”

“History thing.” Dean tugged on his white glove, then punched in the code and dashed through the door.

 

Meanwhile, Shaw was cutting through another door.

 

Dean jumped onto the vault just as the vault doors were closing and quickly grabbed the Declaration, still in its thermopane case, from the vault as the doors around the Declaration closed. Dean breathed out in relief as a door clashed to the ground on the other side of the room and Crowley, Shaw, Natas and Micheal stepped through.

“Good god,” muttered Crowley, “he’s alive.”

For a second they stared at each other, and then Shaw lifted his gun, equipped with a silencer, and opened fire. Dean ducked, holding the Declaration up in front of him.

Thank God for bulletproof glass.

The elevator behind Dean opened, and he dashed inside, the doors closing behind him. Despite himself, a huge grin spread on his face and the elevator zoomed up. “Charlie, I got it. I got it.”

Charlie sounded worried. “Dean, stay focussed.”

With great difficulty, Dean calmed down enough to get out the little bottles of acid he’d tucked on him and melted the bolts as the elevator panel ticked, rising up to the surface. Worry seized him once again. Crowley and his men would be dashing up the stairs just now to intercept him, and once the case broke, Dean lifted the bare Declaration out, carefully rolled it up, and tucked it in a clear plastic cylindrical bag from his pocket.

 

Back at the security station, Woodruff swore. “Damnit, where the _hell_ is Ferguson?”

 

Dean tucked the cylinder under his jacket. Heart pounding, he dashed for the exit just as Castiel came around the corner. He ducked away from her into the gift shop, catching his breath as Castiel passed and gala guests mingled and browsed. He let out a breath, then turned to leave when the voice of the clerk interrupted him. “Sir, are you stealing that?”

Dean whirled around to see a clerk glaring at him. For a second, his mind went blank, then he looked beside him.

_Actual Size Declaration of Independence Reproductions: 35$._

Dean pulled out his wallet, but only found 32$.

 

Back in the security station, Woodruff was getting nervous. Ferguson was nowhere to be found.

 

Dean ran down the stairs, holding the “souvenir,” and headed for the exit. Quick footsteps behind him preceded a suspicious looking Castiel, striding along beside him. “What’s that?” asked Castiel, sounding simultaneously doubtful and highly disinterested.

 

In the security system, all cameras flicked back on.

Woodruff did a double take.

The most important document in America was gone.

 

Dean hurried towards the van, but Castiel was still there, beside him. “It’s a souvenir,” panted Dean. “From the gift shop.”

That was when all the National Archives alarms went off, and everything went to hell.

Castiel glanced from Dean to the van to the Archives, and suddenly the pieces seemed to click into place. “It was you.”

Dean’s every instinct screamed at him to run. “Listen, Novak-,”

“POLICE!” Castiel shouted, surprisingly loudly for such a quiet guy, and Dean started.  Panicking, he grabbed the historian to cover his mouth, but the guy fucking _bit_ him, and suddenly Castiel was in the middle of the road, holding the Declaration, panting.

Dean looked past him and saw Crowley, eyes fixed on Castiel.

Ohhh no. Oh shit. Oh no.

“Shit, shit shit shit,” sang Charlie. “Dean, get in the truck. GET IN THE TRUCK!”

Castiel’s eyes went wide as he realized the full extent of what he was holding. “Oh my god,” he whispered quietly.

Dean stepped out towards him, pleading. “Castiel. Cas. Listen. We have to protect it. You didn’t believe us, so we had to-,”

“You’re pathetic,” snarled Castiel. “This is history. This is a testament to what fifty-six of the bravest men in America dared to do. This is life or death or _loyalty and both_ and they did what no one else did and chose both.”

 _I know, isn’t it amazing?_ Dean wanted to scream, and fangirl with Castiel over every bit of history in America, but instead he backed away, getting into the van. Charlie looked him over from the driver’s seat, eyes wide. “Dean! Where’s-,”

“With Novak. Drive.” Dean ordered curtly, because the Declaration was safe now. The almost-theft would have every guard’s wariness doubled and that would keep the Declaration safe from Crowley.

And there was the other thing, too.

Dean’s head whipped around at the sound of screeching tires to see a catering truck careen to a stop near Castiel, who dashed out of the way as Crowley’s men streamed out of the truck and surrounded him, trying to tug away the Declaration. Dean prayed he would just let it go, but he knew Castiel wouldn’t let anyone take the Declaration from him unless he was dead.

He knew, because if he hadn’t thought Castiel cared about the Declaration, he’d have burned it before handing it over.

Dean leapt out of the truck, but Michael swiveled and opened fire and Dean dove for cover. He looked up to see Castiel being tossed into the van, still tightly gripping the Declaration, face a little bloody, and then the van doors were shut and the car was peeling up the street.

Dean jumped back into the van, and Charlie slammed it into gear. “Follow that truck!” Dean yelled, and Charlie yanked the steering wheel and they were off.

 

In the catering truck, Crowley smiled at the frightened-looking historian, then held out his hand. “Declaration. Now.”

Castiel gulped, adjusting his grip. “No. Never. Not to you.”

The truck veered wildly to the left, and Castiel stumbled, his grip slackening. Crowley leapt forwards and tugged away the Declaration, smiling. “ _Thank_ you.” Up in the shotgun seat, Natas leaned out the window, opening fire on the truck pursuing them.

 

Dean ducked as bullets exploded the front windshield and Charlie slowed to avoid them.

 

Castiel watched, helpless, as Crowley examined the Declaration. “Please,” he croaked. Crowley looked up. “Be careful with it.” Crowley snorted, nodding to Shaw. “You know what to do. No witnesses.”

Shaw cocked his gun and aimed it at Castiel. Crowley, meanwhile, began unrolling the document.  Castiel’s eyes darted around the truck.

 

Charlie, meanwhile, had pulled alongside the truck and she yanked the wheel hard, slamming the van into the catering truck.

 

A sudden heavy impact sent Shaw to his knees and Cas scrambled to open the back doors. Shaw got up and aimed his gun again, Cas closed his eyes….

“Wait.”

Crowley’s voice was deadly calm.

He held up the document. It had been printed on glassy plastic, and printed on the edge was a price tag. 35$.

Despite himself, Castiel grinned widely. “A souvenir.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?”

Thinking fast, Castiel reached behind her, unlatching the door latch. “Dr. Castiel Novak, Executive Custodian of the Charters of Freedom for the National Archives. Why, who are-,”

Just then, another massive impact rattled the catering truck, and Castiel grabbed the door with two hands as it swung open into heavy traffic, Castiel dangling wildly off the side of the moving truck.

 

Dean did a double take when Novak showed up hanging on the doors of the truck, _sans_ Declaration. So he’d figured out it was a fake. “Charlie, get beside them,” he yelled, and dashed to the back of the truck, throwing open the doors. As Charlie pulled up beside the catering truck, Dean reached, reached reached……

He locked eyes with the custodian, and Novak glared at him with the most determined, soul-piercing gaze he’d ever seen.

Then Novak launched himself at him, and the two fell in a tangle of arms and legs in the back of the truck. Dean disentangled himself and leapt to his feet, pulling the doors closed. “Charlie, get us out of here!” he yelled, and Charlie called back, “I have a better idea!” before swerving wildly towards the catering truck. Dean watched Michael, the driver,‘s eyes go wide as he reflexively jerked the wheel to the side, landing the catering truck on its side near the Jefferson memorial.

Dean sat down, panting, and looked at the custodian beside him. Novak stared at him quizzically, his face a comical mix of fury, fear, daring, confusion, and determination.

Then he turned to where he'd hidden the Declaration and sighed with relief when it was still there. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> YES LET'S GO INTO THIS GHOST SHIP  
> I hope you like it. Please let me know. I tried to keep them in character but let me know if I failed miserably.


End file.
